


E. Pluribus Unum

by DiamondJedi



Category: Olympus Has Fallen (2013)
Genre: Car Accidents, F/M, Friends to Lovers, News Media, Scars, School Tutor, Suspended from school, fistfights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondJedi/pseuds/DiamondJedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after the attacks in Washington, Asher tries to piece the country, his life and what’s left of his family together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I: Suspended

A fist flew through the air followed by a strong upper cut that impacted soundly into bruised muscles.  There was a gasp of agony.  The sound of a man hurt but slowly recovering from the assault.  Slinking back the man quickly regrouped, boxing gloves up and coated with the sheen sweat of his adversary.

The man struck out…a strong jab… sadly missing his opponent. The phantom punch connecting with wind not a face.

Mike Banning watched with intense curiosity as Asher geared up for another attack.  His eyes were squinted and his face scrunched in fierce determination.  He read him easily.  He dodged a third blow to his face.  Another to his kidney.  Asher was out of practice and poorly out of shape.  The man was soaked like a wet beach towel and he was dragging in air like patient on life support.

Banning twisted his lips in disappointment.  There was no challenge here.  Not like it had been. 

Once there was a time when Asher could meet Banning blow for blow.  Punch for punch.  Some matches ended in a draw and with the two men laughing and patting each other on the back.  Knocking back cold beers as they recounted the sparring match.  It was ridiculously simple now.  He effortlessly picked apart Asher’s aggressive tactics landing a punch to the face and one the lower left quadrant of his abdomen.

Asher let out a pained grunt and Banning came to a screeching halt.  He watched Asher swing his arm to protectively cradle his stomach.  A pinch of blood staining his white t-shirt.  Banning munched at one glove with his mouth, pulling it off he walked over to his friend.

“Why’d you stop?” Asher panted out, glancing up at him in question.

“How bad is it?”

Asher shook his head, mouth thinning into a tight line.  “It’s nothing.”

“I think you may have ruptured your wound.”

“Don’t worry about it?”

Banning reached out with his naked hand, but Asher evaded him.  “Ben, it’s my job to worry.  I got it pounded into me at the academy.”  He lightly smacked at Asher’s arm, knocking it away.  “Let me see.”

He peeled the sweat damp shirt up, exposing the stomach, inspecting the damage.  His brain worked as memories suddenly compiled.  A day of mayhem.  Of infamy.  A day in Hell.  Asher had suffered a gunshot wound.  It had gone through cleanly but the effect was so terrifying he’d gone immediately into a thing like death.  In all the intensity, madness, and heart racing anger Banning thought he’d lost him.  His efforts all for naught.  It was only after he decoded Cerberus that he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.  He spun round ready to strike but came into eye contact with a friend.

Banning examined injury. It was circular, almost in the form of a severe car cigarette lighter burn.  It had crusted into a purplish black welt but a sliver of blood was now oozing from underneath the scar.  The surrounding skin was a deeper shade of red fading out to a somber hue of feverish pink.  

“You’ve erupted the scab, it’s not too bad.  We’ll have Dr. Johnson take a look at it.”

Asher grimaced pulling his shirt down.  “No, don’t bother calling him.  I’ll just put some peroxide on it and it will be fine.” Bowing the rope to the box ring, he climbed down, and started ripping his boxing gloves off.

“Ben, you know its protocol.  I have to report this.  Every nick and every scratch you get has to be reported and then documented in your medical chart.  You know this.”

“God damn it Mike I said I’m fine!  I’m not a damn china doll that going to shatter into a million pieces.”  Asher chucked his boxing gloves to one side.  They bounced off the wall and slid to the floor in a heap.  He glared. “You’re still pulling your punches.” 

“I was just trying to ease you back into it Ben,” replied Banning.

“I don’t need to be eased into anything.  I almost died two months ago.  I think I can handle anything life throws at me, including a punch from you.”

Mike flashed a smug grin, folding his powerfully muscled arms over his chest.  “Oh, you think so.”

“I know so,” Asher laughed.  “Let me wash up and then we’ll grab some breakfast.”  He reached over and plucked a towel from the bench and made his way to small bathroom.  His short jaunt was detoured by the appearance of secret service agent.

“Hey Randy, how’s it going?” asked Asher.

“Quite well, Mr. President, sir.”

Randy, Randolph David O’Bryan, was a lean, strapping red-hair man with bright green eyes full lips and a charismatic smile.  His high color and cheeks lightly dusted with freckles suggested a strong genetic tie to the old country.

He nodded towards Mike, his eyes taking on a gleam of reverence and respect.  A sudden awe at being in the presence of the country’s greatest hero.  Mike’s face took on a disheartened frown.  He was getting tired of it all.  Tired of the glamor and fame rescuing the President had commended him.  He was no hero.  He was just a man.  A man well trained who happened to be in the right place at the right time.  And thanks to the media splashing his image on virtually every magazine in the entire world…he could never go undercover.

“Randy,” Mike shrugged into a thick dark blue hoodie.  With his heart beat slowing down, the room was becoming uncomfortably chilly.  “Is Martha keeping those biscuits for us?”

“Warm and buttery,” he replied.  “Just as you like it sir.”

“Don’t sir me.  I’m not the one in charge,” said Banning.

“But I am,” Asher approached Randy, a towel roped around his neck.  He checked his wristwatch.  “8:30.  It’s a bit early. I didn’t think I needed a security detail to go to the bathroom.”

“I’m sorry sir, but Vance just received a call from Headmaster Anderson.  It’s your son, Connor, he was in another fight.”

()()()()

Established in 1809, St. Michaels School for boys was funded and its land bequeathed by Eleanor Watson, a wealthy socialite who later died with issue. The house itself was a magnificent design of masonry and post Medieval architecture resting on 12 acres of rich, spacious land.  With rich history tying it the Presidency and deep fundamental religious ethics, St. Michaels was the perfect place for Connor to blossom not only academically, but morally as a human being.

At least, that was how Margaret always factored it.

Honestly, the whole idea of Connor entering a private school, especially one with faith based principles left Asher somewhat ill.  But that was before the accident.   And before he witnessed the destruction of one the most secure buildings in the world and the death of hundreds of brave and noble men.

After the horrifying ordeal, Asher prayed for the first time in his life.  Prayed for a new beginning for his country and his son.  But soon the boy began to act out.  Violently.  Fistfights.  Snide remarks to his teachers.  His grades had plummeted.  He sought out a Child Psychiatrist for his son.  Told him he thought about pulling Connor out of school.  Just for a little while.  Perhaps scraping together some close quality time with his son would mend their bond and ease the pain inflicted in the last two years.

 The doctor informed him it was a bad idea.  That the nurturing wisdom and spiritual guidance of St. Michaels was the best place for his son to be.  All would be will he stated.  Except all was not well.  Connor was not well. 

“8:30.  A new record.”

Mike swiveled in his seat at the front of the limo.  A monster of a vehicle surrounded by a convoy of heavily armed guards, agents, and D.C. officers.  “Sorry, sir?”

“Nothing,” the President sighed.

Asher let his eyes drop from the scenic route blurring pass his window.  At 10:45 EST the Presidential motorcade departed the Dumbarton House to make the journey to St. Michaels.  On the way he caught a glimpse of the White House.  Construction workers.  Crane lifts.  Dump trucks littered the front lawn.  Endless neon signs and police officers were stationed out front.  Some directed traffic while others blocked bystanders and hot shot paparazzi from taking pictures.

“She looks good,” said Mike.

Asher nodded his head in agreement.  “Yes she does,” he said softly.  “How many more months before we can return?”

“The foreman hopes to be done by New Year’s but,” Banning hesitated.  “There was a lot of structural damage and…and a lot of flowers.”

“I know,” Asher returned his gaze to the dizzying world going by.  “I know.”  He remembered it being a rainy afternoon in Washington D.C. when dozens of families upon thousands of people came to place flowers on the front lawn.  It was impossible to light candles as the day wore into the night.  Yet there were flowers such as he had never seen.  It took the cleanup crew a good week to carefully gather up all the withered arrangements once construction commenced.

At the same time, Asher and his entire administration was packed up and relocated to the Dumbarton House.  He could only chuckle inwardly at the irony the day the motorcade stopped in front of the Federal style house.  History recalled Dolley Madison, the First Lady, having to flee to this particular place when the British invaded in 1814.

“How’s the monument coming along?”

“It’s almost complete sir.  They’ll put the marble in once the White House is finished.”

“Good.  I’m glad to hear that.  It’s probably my first and last piece of good news for the day.”

Banning heard the meaning in Asher’s tone and studied the President for a moment.  “It’s probably nothing sir.”

“Probably?  Are you sure about that?” Asher slanted his gaze.

“Connor… ‘Sparkplug’… he’s a good kid.”

“Who’s taken a keen interest in practicing MMA moves on his fellow students?”

“I didn’t teach him any of that,” Mike coughed, tugging at his tie which had grown rather tight around his neck.

Asher snorted.  “You didn’t have to.  With YouTube… the internet… there’s a beehive of information just at his fingertips.”  He sighed reclining his head against the soft leather.

“You all right sir?”

“Yeah,” Asher slowly closed his eyes in an attempt to catch up on some sleep.  “Wake me when we arrive Mike.”

“Will do sir.”

()()()()

President Benjamin Asher counted over forty anxious faces pressed against windows the instant his limo pulled to the main doors of St. Michaels.  Another ten students stood gaping in shocked disbelief by the water fountain.

“They act as though they’d never seen you here before sir,” Mike said, moving to the head of a diamond position.  Since the attack security had been elevated and executed with extreme prejudice.

“They haven’t,” replied Asher.  “This is the second time I’ve been here.  Margaret was always the one…”

He cleared his throat at the memory of his dearly departed wife.  Although the sorrow and anguish had abated, the sting of remembering had not gone away; maybe it never will.  He noticed the tension rise in Mike’s shoulder and acknowledge the guilt and burden he still carried.  It had been his call.  And Margaret died.  The sane part of his brain believed the special agent had made the right choice but his heart…now and again…still condemned him.  Especially on nights when he was lonely and his bedroom was all too quiet.

Their friendship was far from what it used to be yet since that horrific day it was on the rebound. 

“Mr. President, my god this is an honor,” came a short stubby man with receding hair, a fat face and round black rimmed glasses.  He introduced himself as Wendell Simmons, one of the administrators at St. Michaels.   “I am sorry we have to meet under these circumstance and my condolences regarding your wife, Margaret Asher.  She was a fine lady and…”

“Where is my son?” Asher demanded cutting through the horseshit.  He stared down angrily at the now trembling Simmons.

Adjusting his glasses, Simmons cleared his throat.  “Yes sir, right this way.”  He swung around in his markdown shoes to lead the group to Headmaster Anderson’s office.  They marched down the hall, footsteps in unison.

“Beside me ace,” Mike barked in annoyance, knocking the little man to the side.  He meant no disrespect but he needed his line of vision clear at all times.  A full 180 degrees.

“Yes…my apologizes…” he narrowed his gaze; recognition coming to view.  “My word, are you not…?”

“Armed and dangerous,” Mike barked, his expression one of grim reservation.

One or two agents stifled a laughed as Simmons swallowed and fiddled with his glasses.  Skipping ahead he led them soundlessly to a spacious chamber fitted more into a private study rather than a waiting room.  Entreating the President to wait, and going up toward an impressive wall made of mahogany, Simmons knocked and spread the double doors wide at the sound of a beckoning voice.

“Headmaster Anderson,” he announced in all grandeur.  “The President of the United States.”

Asher entered with Mike alone following him, guarding, watching him like a hawk.  Several steps inside Asher froze at the sight of his son Connor seated in front of an antique cherry wood desk.  He looked mauled but definitely not beaten.  His dirty blond hair was unruly; bits of leaves and twigs stuck out of the strands.  The right sleeve of his blue blazer was torn at the seams.  Dirt and debris dusted the whole of his clothes.  His bottom was split and the skin of his face was flushed red.

“Connor…I thought…”

“Please take a seat Mr. President,” Headmaster Anderson interrupted and with a gnarled left hand indicated for the Asher to take the seat next to his son. 

He was an elderly man of seventy, beady grey eyes, a beak shape nose with a permanently endowed frown at the corners of his mouth.  His hair was all but gone except for the few strands which were tapered and well groomed at the back of his skull.  And unlike Simmons, he never had need of glasses, surprising for a man of advanced years.

“Let me start by addressing that in all my years at Saint Michaels, I have never seen such behavior displayed.  It is true we have the everyday ragamuffins conjuring pranks on each other and the teachers, but such open show of brutality…”  His gaze pinned Connor before traveling to the President.

Asher shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling as though he was back in the fourth grade facing Amanda Wheeler, the school principle.  “What happened?”  He asked cutting the onslaught and glancing down at his son.

“Ricky, just wouldn’t stop picking on me,” grumbled Connor.

“Yes,” Anderson warbled.  “The Harrington boy.  Master Davis informed me the boy had been molesting Connor quite frequently.”

Asher railed, “You knew this kid was bullying my son and you did nothing about it.”

Headmaster Anderson straightened in his chair and his eyes came close together.  Benjamin Asher may be President of the United States but he was not about to let the man intimidate him.  “His parents have been notified about his conduct and he will be punished accordingly.  Nevertheless, your son’s behavior in the last few short months have taken a downward spiral.  Outbursts, incomplete assignments, and total lack of respect for authority.”  Anderson held up his hands.  “I understand the loss of his mother, the recent tragedies, has had a traumatic affect Mr. President, but your son cannot continue walk around with a chip on his shoulder.  There is code of conduct here that we follow to the letter.”

“I understand Mr. Anderson and I promise you,” Asher assured.  “This will never happen again.”

“I would like to believe that.”

“You will.  He WILL change.” He looked at his son hard and was irritated to see the boy was hardly fazed by the conversation.  He was slouched in the chair, staring dazedly out the window.  Asher knocked the back of his hand into Connor’s arm.  “RIGHT!  This will never happen again.”

Connor sighed, rolling his eyes.  “Right.”

“You’re sorry,” Asher stressed through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry.”  Like a subservient altar boy, his son bowed his head, thrusting his bottom lip up in a pout.

“‘Repentance is not so much remorse for what we have done as the fear of the consequences.’  And there are consequences Young Master Asher.  A three weeks suspension effective immediately and the completion of assignments you have failed to hand into your teachers.”

“What?” Connor jumped in his seat and looked at his dad pleadingly.

“Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“If I had my will Mr. President the boy would be expelled but that would be bad for Saint Michaels and bad for you.” Anderson said coolly.

Asher sank back into his chair in a dawning realization.  “Oh, I see.”  He did see.  Was it always politics?

“No.  You do not.  You are lucky Richard Harrington’s parents are not pressing charges.”  Anderson rose with some difficulty but eventually got to his feet.  “Now if we are all finished here I have duties I must attend too.”

 


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months after the attacks in Washington, Asher tries to piece the country, his life and what's left of his family together.

The weather was changing and not for the better. The sharp spike of pain rushing up Danielle Mason's right leg was proof she was in for another long and crippling winter. Fingers clenching the bedding from the intense discomfort, she reached immediately reached for salvation. The bottle of Vicodin HP sitting on the night stand on top of Dan Brown's newest thriller… _Inferno_.

Doctor prescribed one pill be taken every 4-6 hours.

Danielle popped in three. She needed a strong kick to her leg muscles this morning. If not she wouldn't make it pass noon. At that hour, as if on a timer, pain reared its ugly head and she would be hobbling like Igor. Earnest to do his master's bidding. The car accident had taken its toll and three years of her life. Three years of agony and anxiety. Three years of surgery and intense physical therapy that brought sweat and tears to her eyes. And it had taken another year to walk with some measure of grace. Danielle grimly remembered the first evening she dared take a step beyond the safe reach of her walking stick. It was at Gary and Mary's wedding anniversary and for all her grief the couple lived in a turn of the century white stone mansion. The mansion had a grand staircase. Grand and spiral.

"Heaven's Ladder," Mary said with a beam of luster glowing in her eyes as she admired the flawless marble. Flawless revealed its true nature when the strength in her right leg gave out while trying to climb up pass the third landing to the reception on the roof. Right in front of everyone, Danielle toppled three steps, bruising her bottom as well as her pride.

Utterly embarrassed, after three glasses of wine, she made excuses and took an early exit. A regret she come to face for Mary had made the announcement that night that she was going to have a baby. It had hurt to miss the announcement, but not as much as the brutal chill cutting into already aching muscles provoked by the fall. Now winter was here again and the thought made the muscles ache down to the bone.

With a grunt she pushed the downy quilt forward. Battling the pain dead on, inhaling deeply, she came to a sit, swinging her legs over to the side of the bed. The muscles in her bad leg throbbed. She bit her bottom lip. A second felt like an eternity as she sat there waiting for the pain to abate. When it did, she hobbled to her feet, clutching the chair she ritually sat two feet from the bed to catch her balance.

Counting ten second, she collected her strength, throwing her head back to the right to pop the kink in her neck. Reluctantly, she took her walking stick (an antique gold head finish that once belonged to her grandfather) she limped to the bathroom…showered…though it took some time.

One hour and a cup of coffee and an onion bagel later she was bundling into Gucci coat bought at an amazing discount at one of their couture stores. Okay, so it wasn't on a discount rather than the store clearing out last season's undesirables. And it didn't hurt she had a doctorate in Child Psychology, ensuring a semi-sizable bank account. Keys and walking stick in hand she left her small, but comfy condo.

Outside nature was undergoing a glorious transformation as the leaves of oak and elms trees standing like quiet sentinels along the sidewalk changed from a rich green to a multiple array of colors. Vibrant reds. Brilliant Oranges. Soft Yellows. It was for this turn in season she remained in the north; remained in Washington D.C. and battled the cold. Dealt with the aches and pains that made walking difficult. Call her foolish but Danielle simply loved watching the change in season ever since she was a little girl. It was a nice change.

Quickly scrambling for her keys, the cold biting in her leg, she got into a black Lexus SUV. She checked to make sure she had her briefcase. A leather Samsonite flap over. The previous day she'd forgotten it along with all her notes and files of each of her patients. But she had been distracted. Mary had phoned her early in morning completely in hysterics. Something about Gary not coming home after an argument about Nick their son.

Gary had scolded her for being too smothering. Complained how she constantly picked up their son whenever the 18 month old cried. 'The boy needs to toughen up,' he'd said. She told him he was being ridiculous, Nick was still a baby. The scream fest had escalated until Nick started crying. Mary went to fetch him. Gary obstructed her path. It was then the truth of how she was neglecting him as his needs came out. Mary said something that sparked his immediate departure.

Tearful she'd called Danielle. As much as she loved her friends, she was a child psychiatrist not a marriage counselor. She wasn't trained for these little dramas nor did she want to get involved. It was the worst thing any friend could do especially since she wasn't married. Danielle did her best to calm marry down and promised the pair would meet for lunch and talk. Grateful, Mary ended the call, only to leave Danielle in a tizzy as she fool around her condo snatching up purse and keys; leaving her briefcase behind.

"Yep, it's there," she said to herself after a quick glimpse in the back seat. Switching on the car, revving the engine, and pulling away from the curb.

Taking the US 1 alternate, she drove deep into the very heart of Washington D.C. Her office was in a building that was right smack on Pennsylvania Avenue where several prominent buildings were located in the area. Most mornings it would take her twenty minutes to reach the building. However, since the 4th of July, traffic was backed up. There were check points at every turn. Several roads were closed. Police officers and soldiers were on point. It was a certifiable nightmare. Then again, so was that day.

She parked in the public parking at the handicapped spot. Was given a red ticket and a look of suspicion by the one of the security guards. Smiling kindly, she took her ticket, and left while working hard to stifle her temper. She wanted to be offended but she couldn't. After what happened no one was above questioning.

At a glimpse to her watch Danielle saw that it was a quarter to nine and with difficulty quickened her steps, gripping her walking stick as she entered the lobby of the building. It wasn't odd to find it jammed with people in line waiting for the elevators. Local security were scanning badges and x-raying personal effects.

"For Christ sake's we were here yesterday assholes," a guy muttered behind her.

Danielle looked over her shoulder and smiled tightly. Harry Mills was a lawyer for a law firm below her floor.

"It's the price we pay for freedom Harry."

"What freedom?" he snorted with derision. "Blame Asher for the Disneyland lines we have to endure every day. If he was half the President I thought he was we wouldn't be in this nightmare in the first place."

Danielle cut her eyes sharply at him, her soft lips pressing together tightly. "If I were you Harry," she lowered her voice. "I wouldn't talk too much shit about Asher. Not at this time. Not when they have mean looking ball-busting Marines standing right over there." She gestured with her eyes at the two men decked in battle hardened gear with machine guns locked and loaded and gripped tightly in their hands.

Coiling like a worm on a hook, Harry shrank into himself lowering his eyes to the floor, his face paling white. A light bead of sweat pebbled his brow inciting a satisfied grin on Danielle's face. 'All talk and no action,' she thought taking a step forward as the line progressed. Ten minutes later she arrived—finally—on the 22nd floor greeting familiar faces in her sluggish journey to her office. To her surprise there were two very distinct men dressed in dark tailored suits standing like sentinels just outside her door.

They stood eyes front with dour expressions on their faces. Tentatively, she slowed her pace, the rhythm of her heart increasing as assumptions roamed in her brain. Sensing her presence their gazed snapped to her like the crack of a whip.

"Dr. Danielle Mason?" one of them spoke with such resounding authority that the pit of her stomach tightened.

Her throat caught momentarily and she coughed to clear it. "Yes?"

"May I see some identification?"

"Of course," she fumbled inside her purse and retrieved her driver's license. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem," the man took it and examined it closely, feeling the edges to if it had been tampered with. He then lifted his wrist and spoke into the receiver. "It's her. We have a green light." Rotating, the men stepped two feet from the door. He handed back her license. "You can go in."

'I have to ask permission to enter my damn office,' she thought grimly.

Limping in to the small waiting area, Danielle encountered other men in suits, and a very panicky Ann sitting at her reception desk.

"Ann," Danielle frowned. "What the hell is this? Where is Mrs. Harker and Bobby?"

"We asked Miss Taylor to cancel all of your morning appointments Dr. Mason."

Danielle turned and was immediately floored. Special agent Mike Banning stood before her strong, intimidating. The country's hero was standing right in her waiting room. It didn't take a genius to figure out who was in her main office. Her pulse quickened and she fumbled with her bag and her briefcase.

"I'll—I'll take those Dr. Mason," Ann skipped to her feet, gathering the bags and coat into her arms.

Mike swung sharply and led Danielle into her office. It was a spacious and warm environment designed to induce a feeling of home and well-being in her young patients. There were even toys and an artwork station set up in the far left corner to allow for expression and divulging of inner emotions.

"Give us a moment will you Mike."

Danielle followed the voice to a lone figure standing in front a ceiling high window. Her stomach twisted and her heart fluttered against her ribcage. The leader of the free world was in her office.

"Holler if you need me."

Asher twisted around and outside light coming through the window darkened him somewhat. There was a comical look on face as he stared a Danielle and a light chuckled rolled in his throat. "Oh, I doubt she'll do me any harm."

"Never underestimate your opponent, Mr. President," Danielle stated rather stiffly. "And never take what they offer you."

A gleam hitched Mike's right eyebrow and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He ducked out the room, closing the solid polished oak behind him. For several minutes Danielle and Asher stared at each other. Gauging. Seizing up other.

"You weren't announced." Danielle said.

"Technically, I'm not here," Asher replied and looked her up and down again. "You look good Dani. I like what you've done with your hair."

"Cut the crap Ben," she snorted, rolling her eyes, squeezing the head of her walking stick. "I look like hell."

"How long has it been? Eight years?"

"Ten," she corrected.

Asher looked baffled. "God! Has it been that long?"

"What do you want Ben?" she demanded cutting through the horseshit and false pleasantries.

"Same ol' Dani," he snickered stepping casually towards her. "You haven't changed a bit?"

"It's good to know one of us hasn't," she replied and felt a small amount of pleasure at the way Asher's face dropped like stone. There was a clear meaning in her words. One that proclaimed that all was not forgiven.

"You're still angry with me," he said softly.

"No. Just annoyed," she moved to her desk, far more easily now. The Vicodin had kicked in relaxing away the ache that would normally be killing her from standing up so long. "I had appointments and you felt the need to break them." She glared at him almost viciously. "Tell me why? And then you can leave."

"I need your help Dani." His face was pleading. "I need your help with Connor. He's—Christ I don't know. Ever since hell had broken loose he hasn't been the same. Fighting in school. His grades are dropping. He lashes out at everyone including Mike and he used to adore the guy. I don't know what to do."

"Have you taken him to see a specialist?"

"The best but…" Asher's shoulders slump in defeat. "They're not helping. One schmuck says to do this another suggest we go a holiday. We went to beach just like I promised but it hasn't helped. He's retreating I know he is. Doesn't ever care to go up to his mother's gravesite anymore. This shit that went down at the White House…it broke him."

"So now you expect me to pick up the pieces," Danielle said somewhat bothered by Ben's notion that he can just breeze into her life after so many years.

"I'm not expecting anything Dani. I was hoping you could see him…just once a week…no pressure. Please. I want my son back."

"Why me?"

"Because…I know you…and I trust you. I don't really trust these guys. These assholes just want the prestige of seeing the President's son. For now they have to be quiet but I know that once I'm out of office they'll write a book about Connor."

"And violate patient confidentially…lose their license."

"Not if they retire."

Irritated, Danielle looked away. "Ben, this is highly irregular. I haven't seen you since you cut me out your life and suddenly you want me to put what's left of your world back together."

"I didn't cut you of my life," he disputed, his temper rising.

"No. You chose money and power over love and simplicity."

"I saw an opportunity and I took it."

Her lovely face twisted mockingly. "Of course. It's hard to run a campaign on a modest budget. Maggie…her family money…connections secured all the finances."

"I didn't marry Maggie because she was rich."

"Then why did you marry her?" she inquired staring deeply into his eyes. She'd forgotten how beautiful they were and how the swirling pools of blue made her weak in the knees. A moment of hesitation flashed across his face and she scoffed. "You can't even answer."

"I loved her," he eventually said.

"But not the way you loved me," she gazed at him critically. "Don't worry I understand. I wouldn't have made a model First Lady." Her eyes dropped to the surface of her desk as an anguish she thought had long been buried surfaced. "You wouldn't have won with a sistah on your arm."

Asher balked his mouth popping open like a cod fish. His brow wrinkled as he scowled. "That's not true. I never took the fact that you're black into consideration the whole entirety of our relationship. And even when we decided to call it quits."

"But the country might have. Although American's speak of progress and forward thinking, we both know they're not ready to see an interracial First Couple. It's all facts and figures Ben and getting the right amount of votes."

"This isn't about us Dani, this is about Connor." He strode toward her desk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Week kneed, Danielle braced a hand on the table. God, how he looked handsome. In fact, he looked even better now than back when they were dating in college. "Will you help me?"

It was tempting. So great a temptation Danielle could almost taste it. This was a monumental career move most people would kill for. She could name three colleagues who'd jump at the chance to personally supervise Connor Asher's recuperation. Not to mention the social and political connections. But Danielle wasn't them. She had no desires for glory and prestige. She achieved all of her goals. All she wanted now was a quiet, mainstream life.

"I'm sorry Ben," she apologized, "but I can't."

Asher frowned. "Why?"

Exhaling, she shook her head. "Because I don't need the press picking through my personal life, that's why?"

"It would be strictly confidential. You can see my son one a week. I'll arrange everything. No one will be the wiser."

"I—I'm sorry. The answer is still no."

"Why?"

"Because I have numerous patients to attend to. It's unfair to make your son a priority when I have invested so much time with them."

"Look, if this has something to do with us—"

Danielle scoffed. "This is nothing to do with us Ben! And if it was would I still be talking to you. I would've asked you to leave the second I laid eyes on you." She settled into the cushioned chair behind her desk and commenced opening files. "Now, I have some patients to attend to. Hopefully you haven't canceled the rest of my day."

By her tone, Asher understood, and took his cue to leave. Just as his hand rested on the door knob, he heard her voice all to him. "Ben." He paused turning slightly. "I'm sorry about Maggie. Truly I am."

"Thanks," he said quietly and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After seeing the TV series Scandal and reading Mallory Monroe's The President's Girlfriend, I was tickled by the idea of making this an interracial love story.


End file.
